


A Meal for Two

by yasukink (yasukematsuda)



Category: Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: M/M, More Meta Than Plot, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-29 20:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10861452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasukematsuda/pseuds/yasukink
Summary: “I don’t believe you would dine with me as a subject of psychiatric interest, Dr. Chilton.” Hannibal cut him off. “I believe I would very much so be the dominant party at the table.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Red Dragon canon-adjacent. The first time I publish for this franchise and I make y'all picture nasty, middle aged men fucken. Sorry about that, folks.

It was an odd type of intimacy that Hannibal Lecter and Frederick Chilton had fallen into. Unethical and unpleasant to watch. As doctor and patient, though their respective roles seemed unclear, it brought to mind a kind of moral unease; but the oddness wasn’t limited to that factor.

After his admission, Hannibal Lecter had become the subject of Dr. Chilton's interest. A man like him - a man without conscience or regard for society, yet who can still fit seamlessly within it -- as Chilton described him -- would make for an enthralling case study. The doctor often pictured himself, praised by psychiatric organizations all over the globe for cracking the psyche of Hannibal the Cannibal, and pressed on for hours in session. He'd send every staff member he could to pry in off-the-books interviews, and pour over audio received from bugs placed around his cell.

Hannibal was polite and cordial every time, but blatantly uncooperative.

He, on the other hand, did not find much interest in the other doctor. Overeager yet lazy, repugnant, and desperate for recognition. A mind too common to be worth delving into. He did, however, find intrigue in the lengths Frederick went to appeal to him. It was reminiscent of the way Will Graham had acted in their later sessions; questions laced with compliments, encouraging him to boast about what Will believed to be his crimes. He was discreet, skilled in tactics such as those. Frederick, however, was not.

He remained complacent, though. It was too early to act hastily. Observation was key in a new environment, and Hannibal was a talented observer. He’d gladly play the part of a well-behaved patient until opportunity emerged, or until he had the means to create opportunity on his own. Chilton wasn't a by-the-books type; he was certain a gap in security would appear eventually, should he keep himself under the radar of the hospital’s staff.

And he did; he attended mandatory psychiatric sessions, however tedious, and kept good on strict curfews. Lights on, lights out. He kept in line.

Interviews were long, and the staff’s frustration was palpable. Hannibal was never rude or crass, merely obstinate; evading questions or outright changing the subject whenever they felt they could be making some kind of breakthrough.

Their reactions varied. Some staff members hardly noticed the topic change, and others tried desperately to segue back to the original point. Frederick created a category all his own; he became incredibly flustered whenever conversation got away from him; sputtering under his breath and giving dramatic and audible sighs that Hannibal couldn’t help but find amusement in.

After a while, he’d begun to settle with more broad questions; attempting to sift through Lecter’s less-than-helpful answers for what came together to be an all too dull and ordinary profile. Months had passed, and Frederick Chilton had found nothing. At least, nothing different than any other poor sap. He briefly considered that maybe Hannibal was just that -- assuming he, himself, was an even partially-competent psychiatrist; there was no way Hannibal could go this long without letting something, anything, slip through the cracks. He shook the idea right away; he couldn’t afford to have wasted as much time and effort as he had on anything less than a purely criminal mind.

“Tell me about your home.”

They were slowly reaching the fourth hour of their session. Hannibal, clad in full body restraints, looked bored; clearly unattentive, and Chilton looked frayed from wracking his brain for every clinical tactic he’d learned in graduate school. He’d used one after another, and still managed to come out with less information than he had started with. Every conversational pathway left him tied in knots from Lecter’s cryptic answers and verbal diversions. They had gone from talking about murder to harpsichords; from trauma to architecture. Hannibal was even tight-lipped on his work as a psychiatrist, the topic only seeming to come up during attempts to disprove what Chilton said to him.

“My home?” Hannibal raised an eyebrow. “A charming place. My practice resided there, as well...”

He shrugged before adding: “Patients are much more open in less clinical settings.”

“I mean your - your childhood… Nevermind.” Frederick grumbled, jotting down a couple notes. He knew that last comment was meant as a jab at him; a subtle mockery of his inability to decipher whatever code would force Lecter into a state of candor. He brushed it off, however; knowing the other man fed off of vulnerability. Cordial or not, Hannibal would take full advantage of even a hint of weakness and revel in it. It was best to keep insecurities to himself.

He quickly recomposed himself and went on. “But you used to be a surgeon, correct?”

“A surgeon and a doctor, yes.”

“Why change careers like that? Not for the money, I assume.”

“A private practice pays per reputation. But, to answer your question; one can only learn so much about the body. The mind, however, is much less stringent; less constrained by rules of black and white. I missed the straightforwardness flesh and bone could provide, but one learns to love a certain level of calamity, don’t you agree?”

That smug smile. Those small, white teeth.

“Just as well,” He broke Chilton’s gaze, “It gave me more time for hobbies. A doctor’s schedule is busy, busy…”

“Oh?” Frederick feigned naivety. “What kinds of hobbies?”

“Music, drawing…” He paused, eyes wandering the small, white room as he mulled over keeping up his quiet obstinance, or finally throwing Chilton a bone. With a glance to the clock and fatigue setting in, he settled on the latter. “...Cooking.”

Finally.

Chilton’s eyes lit up, feeling a surge of genuine excitement run through him. He couldn’t deny, he had been waiting for Lecter’s culinary skills to come up in conversation. His M.O.; the real shock behind the tabloid tales of Hannibal the Cannibal. Without it, Lecter became another face in the crowd of sophisticated forty-somethings with very literal skeletons in their closets. The same tragic tales, the same motivations.

“So I’ve heard.” Frederick sat up in his chair and straightened his tie. “I also heard you were quite the talent in the kitchen.”

“I don’t believe that’s all you’ve heard about my culinary skills.”

Frederick felt the twinge of annoyance once again. Being reminded that Lecter could read him like a book truly dampened the initial thrill.

“You must have cooked other things.”

“Would you rather know about those other things, or are you looking for something a bit juicier?”

Frederick hated the way Lecter handled phrases.

“Would you tell me something a bit..” he stumbled over the word. “Juicier?”

“Oh, Dr. Chilton,” Hannibal frowned sympathetically. “I believe we both know the answer to that.”

The other man rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat. He tried again; he was determined to force something from the man.

"What did you enjoy about cooking?" Chilton poised his pen above the pad of paper. Hannibal could guess what answer he was looking for; the confession of a deviant, rambling on about how the dominance of preparing and eating the flesh of another gave him a rush -- aroused him.

He'd always pegged Chilton as the Freudian type

"I enjoyed creating works of art.” He opted for honesty, or something akin to it. He truthfully couldn't give more than a superficial answer. Hannibal had never been an introspective man, he’d much rather address the flaws of others than acknowledge his own. He could easily delve into what intrigued him about pressing the air from a pair of lungs on his cutting board, or watching his guests dine on the flutist they’d played besides the week before. He could easily give Chilton any answer he wanted, but he chose not to.

For the pleasure of keeping him in the dark. For the security of keeping himself there, as well.

“There's nothing more satisfying than being able to provide for oneself a meal both beautiful and decadent. Better yet, for others. To know you've appealed to both their aesthetics and their appetite at the same time… And, of course, guests are so much more pleasant with each other on a full stomach-”

“I- Ah… I see.” He noticed Frederick shift in his chair, and he cocked his head. The other man looked down and cleared his throat, scribbling something illegible on the notepad.

Frederick was less than talented in diluting his responses. Exasperation, annoyance. It all showed through. This, however, was different; the younger doctor kept his head tilted down towards the table separating the two, a faint redness coming over his cheeks.

It had been a while since Lecter had gotten a chance to prod around another's mind. Not since Will Graham’s last session had he attempted to become intimate with someone else’s thought processes, but Frederick’s recoil colored him far too intrigued to ignore. Had it been the his tastes that had shaken the doctor? Dr. Chilton had such a perverse interest in the subject matter, it couldn’t have been repulsion; but the doctor’s fascination did seem purely clinical. Lecter couldn’t imagine Chilton to be a closet-cannibal, he wouldn’t have had the stomach for it. He narrowed his eyes. What about his dining habits could have caught Frederick’s attention in such a way?

Deviating from his original thought, he tested the waters. “Extravagance is always the key to impressing dinner guests. People are more inclined to overindulge on special occasions - and I would consider dining with a colleague a special occasion, wouldn’t you?”

Hannibal could hear a sharp breath hitch in Chilton’s throat. He avoided eye contact with the other doctor, who appeared to be staring him down like a cat would a canary. “-Not only to live up to the idea that festivities nullify a larger-than-usual caloric intake, but to be polite to the host.”

Hannibal winked as Chilton finally raised his head.

“You always eat what you’re given, don’t you?”

“If you'll excuse me, Dr. Lecter, I’d like to get on with our session.” Chilton released the breath building in his lungs.

“Of course, of course. First; humor me, Dr. Chilton,” At this, the psychiatrist finally looked up, still averse to looking Lecter in the eyes. “Without knowing my… culinary preferences,” Chilton raised his head.

“Would you have dined with me?”

“Wh-” The man’s mind froze in an instant. What an odd thing for him to inquire about. He took a second to consider if this was another Lecter-esque riddle he’d get sucked into by answering, but was quickly interrupted by Hannibal’s further interrogation.

“As a colleague, perhaps.”

“I don’t-”

“I’m asking would you find dining with me appealing.” Hannibal took the liberty of answering his own question before Chilton could say another word. “You look to be more fond of ordering in a few nights a week, with some reality television re-run occupying the idle silence, but I can’t imagine you giving up a chance for some real human interaction.”

Human interaction.

Chilton’s mind immediately gravitated towards those words. It was not too difficult to deduce that the man was starved, as it were, of companionship. Higher-ups paid him little mind, and subordinates prayed for meetings with him to be as scarce as possible. In fact, these meetings with Lecter had been the most conversation he had in a very long time. Frederick found himself, not pushing the doctor’s parasitic words from the forefront of his mind, but actually pondering them.

He had heard the high praises of Hannibal’s hostmanship from his unsuspecting guests in the trial recordings, paged through the cookbooks the man kept in his cell before allowing them in. He hated to admit it, but he felt a warm thrill at the idea of spending an evening in his company. Purely as an exercise in an up-close and personal case study, of course. Seeing Lecter in his natural habitat would open up many more doors than verbal interviews could.

The way he walked, the way he talked. Seeing the look on Lecter’s face as he made the first cut of the main course he’d both slaughtered and prepared. Lecter pouring him a glass of wine and sharing their most recent psychiatric publications over appetizers; eyes fixed on him as he finished his meal.

Jesus Christ.

No less than appalled at where the train of thought was heading off to, Chilton recovered from his unfocused state and directed his attention back to his patient.

“I- I suppose any respectable psychiatrist would find dining with you fascinating.” He tugged at the knot of his ugly green tie. “Psychopaths are always so different when they’re still acting behind the curtains-”

“Psychopaths?” Hannibal played surprised. “You believe I’m a psychopath?”

“I use the word loosely…” Chilton cursed the unease that lingered in his voice. “I do subscribe to the idea that there’s yet to be found a word that could possibly fit a man like you.”

“A man like me.” Hannibal repeated once again. Chilton wavered, face still bright red; his prior embarrassment and Hannibal’s near-mocking tone becoming more and more difficult to handle.

“I’ve answered your question, Dr. Lecter. Now, it’s only fair you hear out some of mine-”

“I don’t believe you would dine with me as a subject of psychiatric interest, Dr Chilton.” Hannibal cut him off. “I believe I would very much so be the dominant party at the table.”

“Pardon me, Dr. Lecter?!” Chilton choked on his words.

He couldn’t believe Hannibal had said such a thing. He couldn’t believe he, himself, was finding pleasure in it.

A warm buzz built in beneath his belly. He shifted his weight forward once again to suppress it.

“Have you fantasized about an evening with me before, or is this a new development? You’ve always seemed rather fond of my company but I didn’t think it ran this deep-”

“Stop. Now. Dr. Lecter, I’ll have to-” He didn’t have much bearing. What could he do; threaten to leave the room? That was probably exactly what Lecter had wanted from the start. “If you continue to act so boorishly, I’ll… I’ll revoke your privileges to the exercise room and-”

He felt stupid saying it, like threatening a child with a toy.

“Ah, I do apologize, Frederick.” Hannibal had never called him by his first name. “I never meant to make an unwanted advance. I’m simply curious,” Lecter’s red eyes like daggers, he couldn’t look away.

“Do you lay alone in your bed at night thinking of what’d it feel like to finish off a plateful of some sinfully rich dish at my dining table as I watch? Maybe you imagine me taking you back to my room afterwards, hm?” Chilton’s posture opened up and a hand slunk down to his lap, putting gentle pressure on both his crotch and stomach. Discreet, but still noticeable, and cueing Lecter to proceed. “Or, even better; laying you down right there. Do you dream about fucking me, Dr. Chilton?”

  
His emphasis on the word made Frederick’s face burn.

“No, of course you don’t,” Lecter gave a self-satisfied smile. “I think your perverted fantasies come second to your desperate need for a gentle touch.”

He couldn't lie; he had thought just that in the quiet of the night, in his incredibly lonely house, in the glow of his incredibly lonely television, and he felt a dull longing to confess to the fact. Frederick was undeniably hedonistic, and the warm satisfaction of a full stomach and arousal went hand-in-hand. It was, admittedly, partially what drew him to Lecter. Food, pleasure; it was his motif. How could Chilton resist considering what an evening spent with the cannibal would look like.

“Do you mean to imply that you have… imagined a similar scenario, as well?”

As well. Hannibal tried his best not to grin.

“I find it intriguing, how we react in the face of pleasure. We become desperate; needy. Why, the things people will do just for food…”

Chilton groaned, running a hand through his hair, but couldn’t place the emotion encouraging it. He wanted Lecter to continue talking and wanted him to stop. The niceties and hypotheticals were too much; his brain was already fried and he could hardly try to pinpoint the doctor’s intent behind his words.

Hannibal could tell. He could always tell.

He gave the final nudge.

“I would like to feed you, Dr. Chilton.” He spoke plainly. For someone so quick to throw himself on any number of nurses, he certainly needed advances on him to be laid out in black and white.

“Perhaps cook for you, even. You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?”

Chilton swallowed.

“Why?”

He ignored the nagging impulse to break Frederick’s ego and inform him that he just so happened to be the unlucky man in charge of the hospital at the time. That he hasn't really won some special favoritism from Lecter for his brains or wit or looks. He imagined the hurt whine that’d arise from the other man, the ugly way his brow would wrinkle and his lips would crease.

It wouldn't much help his cause, though. Not yet, anyway.

“You’re much softer around the edges than most. Now, now- that’s nothing to be ashamed of; you hold yourself very well and I can tell you take pleasure in your size. In fact, I would be quite interested in seeing you soften up a bit more.”

Frederick couldn’t think. He had never felt a complete loss for words like this. Even while flustered around aggressive patients or ridiculing peers, he could pull up a weak comeback, but his mind was a blank slate in the face of Hannibal Lecter. To think, out of everything he could have done to endear himself to the good doctor, the extra pounds from his lax lifestyle won him over. He was unsure of how to feel; he tried offense, then anger, but the nagging arousal that waxed as the conversation went on sullied the feeling of every emotion he tried on.

“You'd like me to gain weight?”

“I’d like you to explore your pleasure-seeking behavior. I believe it’s a quality we both share, and my pleasure may be achieved more directly from yours than you’d think.”

Chilton shook his head in disbelief. He should be wary; Lecter had never been so open with anyone, let alone him. He recalled session after session of talking circles around himself per Hannibal’s lead, and now he was confessing to wanting a new level of intimacy with the very man incarcerating him.

Saying ‘yes’ would put him at an undeniable risk.

His mind, however, wandered to his midsection. Long nights at work, followed by sessions of filling himself up on greasy fast food from the nearest corner store. Dozing off on the verge of sick; full and sleepy… Would he be so wrong to want a little company?

He nodded absentmindedly. Serious or not about the attraction, cooperation could finally garner a look into Lecter’s head. Unless he slipped up irreversibly and ended up the final victim on the cannibal’s chopping block, it was an offer he couldn't turn down.

Either way, he'd get a meal or so out of it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise you anything. These things involve more paperwork than you would imagine, and the suits aren’t going to be happy with the risks but.. Well, I suppose I could call it a therapeutic exercise.” He chuckled. “But no sharp implements. You'd have to be monitored as you cooked, and we’d have to supply the ingredients.”

Hannibal’s face seemed to soften.

“I’d greatly appreciate you looking into it, Dr. Chilton.”

The other practically let out a soft whine.

Call me Frederick again.

“I have another appointment to be at.”

He lied. Lecter knew he lied.

The other doctor stood awkwardly for a second and cleared his throat, gathering the papers set between the two of them.

He paused and thought. A second passed, and then another.

Frederick moved; deliberately passing by Hannibal to get to the door. The room was small; a couple of maintenance closets wide, giving scant room to maneuver. Chilton slipped by his patient’s side, pressing his stomach to Lecter for less than a moment, but long enough to not be perceived as accidental.

Lecter took an exaggerated breath in, shutting his eyes at the touch.

“Thank you, Frederick.” He murmured beneath his breath. Frederick bit his tongue, and exited the room without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Frederick Chilton took to their deal much more quickly than Hannibal could have predicted. Every day, Chilton would show off for him in an attempt to gain his favor. Pushing out his belly as he passed by his cell, ensuring he had a big meal prior to their sessions; keeping a hand pressed firmly against his stomach or wearing shirts that accentuated the soft weight now collecting around his hips and stomach.

Hannibal did his best to seem appreciative. Cooing and teasing in sessions and passing hours; prompting Frederick to keep up his appetite. He kept in character, and did so well.

Though, he had to admit to himself, it wasn't hard. The appeal of the softer male form isn't easily dissuaded by a gruesome personality. Hannibal had always been one to make the most of a situation -- take blood from a stone.

He would gladly take blood from Chilton.

The doctor wasn't unattractive, in Hannibal's opinion. Worn and tired, but he held himself well, and the way the extra weight from years of living off cheap take-out settled on him was more enticing than the man cared to admit. It most definitely made the wait more bearable.

A pleasant distraction while he bode time until Frederick’s reign had become slipshod enough around him to make his escape.

Lecter’s clear-cut plan was, however, not without flaw. Chilton had quickly taken the bait Hannibal had left; believing himself to have become the affectionate interest of a renowned serial killer, and reveling in the glow of a long awaited, albeit imaginary, intimacy. Hannibal had expected that much. He had not, however, expected how _wrongly_ Chilton would have interpreted their fictitious relationship.

Despite Hannibal’s indiscretion in keeping an upper hand between the two, the other psychiatrist had quickly become convinced he held some excessive bearing in this newfound companionship. Touting his dominance over Lecter and his _“hidden desires”_ , he did not only risk compromise in Hannibal’s plan for escape, but left him indescribably irritated.

Hannibal lay back on his cot and rubbed his temples. He hadn't anticipated having to guide Chilton, step by step, to his inevitable downfall, but he could feel it becoming a necessity.

 

* * *

 

The evening played out like every other. Supper was delivered to inmates and the afternoon staff either left for their homes or called in for take out on their fifteen minute break. Lights were gradually dimmed to maintain the patient's sleep-wake cycles, and at seven o’clock, on the dot, Hannibal was gussied up in his restraints and brought to a meeting room per the request of Frederick Chilton. Consistent. Predictable.

Even more predictable was the sight upon entering the room.

A clearly full Chilton sat across the table from Lecter, leaned back and a bit groggy, lacking anything more than Lecter’s file and a pen.

“You should be more cautious, Frederick.” He nodded at his sparse accommodations. “People may start to catch on.”

At this, Frederick snorted. “They're not going to say peep, Dr. Lecter. Not if they want to keep their jobs.”

“Risky, even for you. Could your reputation really take an accusation like that?”

“Dr. Lecter, you're well aware what I brought you in for. If we’re both tight-lipped about what happens next, simple speculation won't matter. It’ll be office gossip at most.” He grunted, standing and walking to Lecter’s side.

The doctor was clad in less restrictive constraints than usual; handcuffs secured at his waist and a pair around his ankles. Chilton was not afraid of what Hannibal was expected to do.

“I’ll likely be able to get you those cooking supplies by the end of the week,” Chilton smoothed down his blazer. “Barney will supervise the cooking, I’ll supervise the rest.”

The other man pulled himself up and perched himself on the table, close enough to the edge to be nearly straddling Lecter’s waist. His soft stomach pressed to the other man’s chest, and thighs against his knees.

“You’ve grown.” Lecter said with a quiet warmness in his voice.

“The shirt makes it obvious.” Frederick patted his stomach. “It doesn't help that I ate before I came here.”

“Oh?” Hannibal’s eyes betrayed the interest in his tone. Chilton could only briefly catch the spark of annoyance within them, but had little intention of letting up just yet. He unbuttoned the lower portion of his shirt, revealing soft, pale skin. Skin rarely exposed to light; seeing not much more than the dim glow of his bedroom lamp.

Inexperienced; just as everything else about him.

Chilton hadn’t had much experience, romantically or sexually. Dates here and there, some intimacy in college; men from fraternities or women from nearby bars, his personality dilute and practically endearing with the influence of cheap Jell-O shots and the low-lighting of his old dorm. He made every attempt, however, to conceal this fact. Like everything else he did; intimacy with Chilton consisted mostly of his own clumsy first moves.

“What will you cook for me?” He slipped the his shirt down over his shoulders, leaving his wrists still in the sleeves.

“Blancmange would be the simplest to prepare under these circumstances.” As he spoke, he placed soft kissed around the other man’s navel, prompting him to lean down and permit access to his soft chest. Lecter eyed the blue veins visible beneath his pale skin, emerging from beneath his clavicles. “Sanguinaccio dolce, though. Chocolate and blood would be quite a fitting mix for you-”

“Mmhmm.”

It was clear Chilton wasn’t processing much of what Lecter said. Bloodflow occupied his gut and groin, though, those who met him could argue that a common occurrence. Hannibal, however, felt his lingering distaste grow at the ill-mannered behavior.

"In all your years as a psychologist, Dr. Lecter..." Frederick pulled back and arched out his lower back as he sat up proudly before Hannibal. "What causes someone to take such an interest in seeing another well-fed?"  
  
Hannibal raised an eyebrow. Chilton was becoming far too brazen in his words. This newfound boldness finally peaked Lecter’s disdain, and it gave him immense pleasure to imagine the look on his face as he pulled it from his feet like an old rug.   
  
"We are naturally inclined to find a fuller figure more attractive." Hannibal shrugged. "It allowed our ancestors to know who had the means to provide for themselves and who didn't. They, of course, saw an appeal in those who lived in excess; clearly they were doing something right."   
  
"-and someone who prefers to provide for them?" Chilton held Hannibal's eye contact as he stroked his own stomach with his thumb.   
  
"Isn't that the question..." Hannibal ran his tongue over his top lip. "Tell me, Dr. Chilton; what of a man who is aroused by others providing for him?”

The other raised an eyebrow, the excited stupor fading for a second and, in turn, prompting confusion. “W-well, I suppose-”

“More specifically, a man who has become dependant on the act of a patient coaxing him to gorge himself, he can hardly go a day without?”

Chilton paused, managing a short laugh. He was taken aback by the other’s tone; after weeks of cooing and coddling and gentle coercion, the shortness in Lecter’s voice almost hurt.

“You know, the problem with hedonism is that it requires desires more than just pleasure. It’s in achieving these desires that we feel satiation, but what do you do, Frederick? You lounge about and do nothing but gorge yourself each day, and for what? My approval?”

Frederick was frozen. He felt a cold numbness set in.

“Do you seek out the acknowledgement of everyone, or just your patients who have scant other choice? Do you feel powerful now? Full and fat and waiting for someone to finally lay hands on you-”

“Oh, damn you!” Chilton slammed a hand onto the metal table beneath him. He hopped to his feet, giving a hurt laugh and frantically trying to button his ill-fitting shirt. “I could have guessed you were just toying with me!”

He couldn't believe he felt a pang of rejection from the words of a patient, let alone a murder-happy cannibal. His face flushed, as he frantically collected the folder splayed out between the two. The doctor stormed to the door and grasped the handle, wavering a second before pushing. He could hear a small whimper build in the back of his throat, and he could tell by the look on his face in the reflection of the room’s convex mirror, Lecter had heard it as well.

The man forced a sour expression and slammed the office door shut.

Lecter listened closely to the echo of the halls, cursing his lack of prior assurance that Barney would be coming to bring him back to his cell at an agreed-upon time.


	3. Chapter 3

The days following Lecter’s _incident_ with the doctor were quiet. Chilton walked about the hospital with an all-too visible grey cloud above his head. Through rumor and rule, Lecter could see him becoming more and more irritable; lights out a half hour earlier than usual, passes of the sanitation cart becoming scant...

Lecter felt disheartened that the cooking privileges he was promised had been promptly revoked following Chilton’s abrupt exit of their last session. He couldn’t say he was shocked at all, and compromising certain leniencies was worth it to ensure his freedom, but it served as a petty upset, and further fueled his drive to very literally bring his captor to his knees.

His fingers gripped the sheets of his cot more aggressively than he would have liked as he pictured Chilton choking back a gross sob realizing the well-behaved Lecter's betrayal; realizing his self-indulgence had finally doomed him and freed his most prized patient.

The rumble of the meal cart coming down the hallway interrupted Lecter’s umpteenth replay of the scene within his mind. Poor substitute for a chance to partake in an old hobby, but seeing the humiliated expression on the other man’s face, again and again, would satiate him for the time being. The cart paused in front of Lecter's cell, and he heard an orderly shuffle around with the latch on the front. Heavy steps, gentle touch -- he didn't have to open his eyes to know it was Barney.

"Dr. Lecter?"

"Yes, Barney?"

"Are you ready for your supper?"

"Yes, Barney. Thank you."

Barney pulled a tray from the cart, his other hand taking hold of the small container of mace on his belt. "You know the drill, Dr. Lecter. Nose to the wall, back to me."

Lecter nodded, opening his eyes and rising from his cot in compliance.

"Now, Dr. Lecter..." Back still facing the orderly, Hannibal could already hear the amusement in his voice. "Mind if I ask you a question?"

"Mm?" He turned his head back slightly. "No, not at all."

“Dr. Chilton’s in more of a huff than usual, huh, Doc?” Barney chuckled, sliding the tray into Lecter’s cell. A week had passed, and Chilton was more tightly-wound than ever. Humiliation hardly suited an already-ill temper “And come to think of it, you two haven't been in session much, have you? Alright, you can turn back around.”

“I admire your observational skills, Barney,” Lecter turned and made his way to the front of his cell to retrieve the tray. “...but I’m certain there's no real correlation. Dr. Chilton’s problems go much deeper than that.”

Barney let out a full-bodied laugh. “Play nice, Dr. Lecter.”

“Of course.” Hannibal smiled politely in return. The two had swapped stories of Chilton’s bumbling attempts at psychiatry, but Lecter had no plans to gloat about this instance just yet. Perhaps, he thought to himself, he would send Barney a very detailed letter after he’d fled the hospital. A condolence card, of sorts; obituaries were never thorough enough for Lecter’s liking, and Chilton’s lonely life would most definitely leave his lacking.

He imaged the uncomfortable flush that would come over Barney’s face as he tried to push the image of an overfed Chilton straddling Lecter’s thighs from his mind.

The orderly made his way with the lunch cart down to the cell on Lecter’s immediate left, and as he disappeared down the dimly lit hall, Hannibal couldn't help but feel a brief swell of pride at the success his exercise was reaping.

He’d give it a few more days. Let Frederick stew and then request to see him. He knew he’d have him, quite literally, eating from the palm of his hand once again in no time.

It was a matter of spontaneous recovery. 

Lecter was happy to play Pavlov for the day.

 

* * *

 

Frederick paced about his office, one hand running through his hair, the other resting on his stomach. He’d read at length of Lecter’s mind games. Manipulation of patients and offenders alike; those he found both interesting and distasteful. He knew to be cautious, but evidently not cautious enough. The sting of humiliation at Lecter’s initial beratement hadn’t yet subsided, but a hollow ache had opened up, leaving him feeling unbelievably lonely without the company of his patient.

Not lonely. Needy.

Frederick had felt lonely before; he was quite familiar with the feeling, in fact. He’d become intimate with it long ago in his cluttered apartment, with the television giving idle noise while he paged through rejected publications or ate or stroked himself off to dirty magazines he’d purchased at a corner store one town out.

Needy he was less accustomed to.

His ego was too easily damaged to feel needy. Rejection resulted in anger or shame; spiteful or negative feelings. Desperation was quickly subdued to protect his self image.

But not today.

He couldn’t rid himself of the image of Lecter, head bowed and pressing kisses near his navel. Dangerously closer to his crotch than any woman had been in the past three years or so. The feeling of the cannibal nuzzling up to his warm, heavy stomach; stuffed full with greasy fast food. He could hardly believe how terribly he missed it.

His stomach groaned; reminded, again, that he spent yet another evening filling up on take out by himself. He sat back down in his chair, loosening his belt a notch, then returning his hand to cradle his aching gut. His wardrobe had been lacking as of late; consisting of the few shirts and slacks that fit comfortably. Holiday colors, mostly; he’d always put on a bit of winter weight each year, so his seasonal apparel permitted him a bit more room to move about during the day.

Frederick didn’t have much need to impress anyone with his more form-fitting suits now.

Even his new garb, however, had begun to feel snug. Around his hips and chest; each time he moved the right way and felt it rub up against him, he felt a little shock of arousal, and his lingering desperation grew.

He hated Lecter. He wanted to see Lecter. He wanted to feel Lecter, or, rather, he wanted Lecter to feel him. Fat and pampered, content and wanted. He could hardly handle how pathetic he felt at the thought.

The man stood with a start, head buzzing with heat. He wouldn’t allow himself to think any longer; logic interfered with pleasure, and he’d rather the repercussions of pursuing his hedonistic behaviors than the empty hum of loneliness.

Chilton took a deep breath in. Lecter wasn’t an unreasonable man, he was sure they could come to some sort of arrangement.

As Lecter said, the other man thought, his pleasure was more directly related to Frederick’s than he could imagine.


End file.
